A Knack for Survival
by Begriffsschrift
Summary: Because sometimes, the most terrifying thing is to feel trapped in your own existence. A window-view into clinical depression, the adaptive powers of the mind, and when "living" becomes "coping." Psychological, Edcentric, no pairings yet .


A/N: Good god. I'm trying to write a _multi-chaptered_ fic with _plot_. I don't know what possessed me, Captain McPlotless of Oneshotland, to do this. Perhaps it's my awful virus and fever—gotta love pandemics, you know. So, this pilot chapter is as beta'd as it can be... That is, with the kind of coherency that makes the curtains in one's office _melt into the wall._

So here begins a chronicle of undiagnosed depression, the vicious cycles it feeds, and its far-reaching effects on one's intellect, body, and lifestyle.

* * *

**Chapter I: Mornings**

He supposed it wasn't that unusual—Ed had never been a morning person anyway. But today, if possible, getting out of bed seemed more tedious than yesterday. He knew it was just his reluctant mind making distortions, but the alarm clock really did seem farther away than it used to be. And the sun seemed to be burning brighter than it should at six thirty. His body felt heavier—almost cumbersome, as if he were made of clay.

The ringing of the alarm was jarring, but in his sleepy haze, he couldn't seem to find the off-button, even as he searched blindly with his flesh hand.

"Christ."

It was giving him a headache. As a quick remedy, he smashed it with the forearm of his automail. The device gave out in a death-rasp, if such a thing were feasible by a machine. Metal and glass fragments littered the floor, which he swept under the bed so as to not concern Al. _'I'll just reconstruct it later,'_ he told himself absently.

He made his way to the kitchen, looking ever the old man with his cracking (and screeching) joints and tired eyes—the kind that looked like they had seen many lifetimes. If it weren't for his youthful skin, it would be hard to recognize Edward Elric for the sixteen-year old he was. Even then, some people would say it was still a challenge.

Ed sighed and braided back his hair as he waited for the coffee to brew. He'd found that coffee was an inevitability as a dog of the military. He glanced behind him, assuring himself that Alphonse was indeed still upstairs, and he reached for the bottle of whiskey in the bottom cupboard, hidden behind some of the kitchen supplies. Like he did every morning, he poured a shot into the hot coffee, and put the bottle back in its cache.

Did he feel that it was wrong? Not really—on the rationale that, if the State deemed him old enough to take lives, he was certainly entitled to a bit of alcohol to take the edge off. But still, he wanted to hide his resigned attitude from little brother. If a false façade of his old childlike optimism inspired Alphonse to keep his own optimism burning, a little dishonesty seemed just fine to him.

Even so, he would hear _"Brother wouldn't give up like that!"_ each time he grabbed the bottle. But each time, he told that voice, _'I'll protect you from the brother you don't know.'_

The clunking of metal on wood heralded Alphonse's arrival downstairs—_'after a sleepless night, like always,'_ Ed's mind would add before he could keep the thought at bay. There was the ritual "Good morning, brother!" with the chilling, hollow acoustic of the armor. He gave Al a smile too wide to be real and a small wave, and suddenly felt the need to leave early to headquarters—anything to get away from that room.

He would never say it, but it hurt to look at Al. It was the manifestation of one of his greatest failures, and the self-reproach would eat away at his gut when he made eye contact with Al—eye contact with the dark openings in the helmet. He could deal with it before when he was actively working towards Al's restoration, but ever since he was confined to Central on standby—_unable to do anything_—it was unbearable. He hoped that Al didn't think he was being more aloof than usual. The last thing he wanted was to make him worry.

On that note, Ed downed the rest of the coffee and whiskey and mustered the cheeriest "See you later, Al!" he could manage. He rushed out the door, forcing purpose into his stride for at least a few blocks.

He wasn't sure whether it was the whiskey or the guilt that was burning and bitter in his throat.

* * *

"Wow, so I finally get to witness Boss's Early-Streak-To-Work!" Havoc whistled. "That's…four times this week—or at least that's what I've heard—and it is only Friday. Impressive."

Ed snorted indignantly. "Shut up, Havoc. Talking as if I'm never prompt…"

"I'm talking 'early,' Boss. If it were a normal day, you wouldn't need to be here for another fifteen minutes!"

'_Normal day?' _That struck an odd note with Ed. Maybe it was the alcohol-induced fuzziness in his mind, but he didn't seem to pick up what it entailed.

"Well, I, for one, appreciate a work-driven superior." Hawkeye strode into the room, gun holstered (thankfully). She dropped several stacks of paperwork on a dozing Roy Mustang's desk with a reverberating slam, and promptly lifted the man—who was now stirring from his rest, disturbed by the sound—by the collar. "I can't say so much for this sorry bastard. RISE AND SHINE!"

"Unh… Morning…" Mustang rubbed his eyes and yawned. He must've had a death wish.

Riza grimaced with contempt, released her grip, and flung said man harshly into an upright position in his chair.

"With all due respect, you should be happy that there's a new development with the threat. We've been going aimlessly on _nothing_ for the past few months!"

'…_Development? Oh—so that's why everyone else is here so early, too.'_

It seemed obvious now, of course, and Edward flushed a little at his slowness. He hadn't even asked why everyone was already there, even at the ripe minute of 6:45.

Mustang opened his mouth to speak, but Ed's voice cut him off.

"When did the meeting time change?" _'How come I didn't know?'_

"We were considering alerting you this morning, but _he"_—Breda indicated Mustang, who gave a self-aggrandizing shrug, eyes closed and eyebrows raised—"said that you needed your beauty sleep."

The playful conceit ebbed from Mustang's face and he turned to Ed seriously. "You looked really tired yesterday, Fullmetal." His tone was matter-of-fact, but the mutual worry could be felt throughout the office. There was something both reaffirming and debasing, being looked after like a child. They were all giving him that _look_.

"I _am _tired." Ed winced, as it came out too sharply. Quickly, he muttered (but audibly), "…but I'm not pushing myself too hard. Hell, has there been anything with this case before that made it necessary for me to push myself?"

Hawkeye somehow had a soft but stern look. "I know it's hard to take this seriously, Edward-kun. I, myself, don't believe this situation warrants a lockdown of Central, but let's take the Fuhrer's word with a grain of salt—Amestris is in danger, especially the alchemists."

'_I don't really care.'_ It was an unbidden thought that surfaced, surprising him as he realized that that was how he truly felt.

"Fullmetal, you can't restore Al if you're dead. Just be patient until this washes over."

'_Don't you think I know that? You don't need to tell me—if anything, tell me how long until this 'washes over'—how long I need to _wait_ until I can do a single, fucking thing for Alphonse? Do you know how horrible it is to not be able to do anything?'_

He kept his thoughts in his mouth—they didn't deserve his self-pity or his anger; they deserved the same optimism he gave to Al. So he took what little energy he had and acted the part.

With a sheepish laugh, he combed his fingers through his bangs. He felt a headache coming on. It was probably the whiskey and the coffee.

"Yes, yes. I understand. Now may someone debrief me on the case notes?"

Probably the whiskey and the coffee, right?

TBC.


End file.
